


Smooth as Silk

by gestures_incoherently



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Boys in Skirts, Fluff, M/M, Skirts, red. silk. skirt.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestures_incoherently/pseuds/gestures_incoherently
Summary: OOTD: the boyfriend hoodie and a red silk skirt
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	Smooth as Silk

**Author's Note:**

> *gestures incoherently* skirt

Osamu isn't sure when or how exactly he first got the idea for _the Skirt._ But once the idea was in Osamu’s head, it took up permanent residence and, despite his best efforts, he hasn’t been able to shake it. 

Maybe he is drawn to the skirt because they’re breezy, cool, and—uh—convenient. Or maybe he likes them simply because they’re pretty. It doesn’t matter because he’s past the point of trying to understand _why._ The why isn’t important. 

He fingers the skirt’s hem. The soft, worn in, red silk slips across his fingertips like water over the smoothest rocks jutting out of a stream bed. The fabric falls from his hand and settles in neat folds across his legs. 

Skirts are funny. It almost feels like there’s nothing there—like he’s already stripped down to nothing. It’s only the slide of silk against skin and the soft rustle of fabric meeting fabric that remind him that he is wearing _something_ and that something is a _skirt._

He looks at himself in the mirror. His hair sticks up haphazardly from a long day stuck under his Onigiri Miya cap. The red skirt hits just above the knee. His eyes follow the line of the fabric from his knees, across his thighs, to his hips. The waistband disappears from view, hidden underneath the EJP hoodie he nicked from Suna years ago. It’s comfortable. It’s cozy. It’s—

“—hot.” Suna stands in the doorway to their bedroom, jaw slack and eyes wide. The duffle bag hanging from his shoulder falls to the floor with a _thunk._

Right on time. 

Osamu grins. Smug. He turns and the skirt swishes around his thighs. Suna’s zeroes in on the movement. He bites his bottom lip, gaze travelling from the hem of the skirt to the hoodie before finally looking Osamu in the face. 

Osamu shrugs. A silent challenge. _Are ya going to do anything about it?_

Suna crosses the room in two strides until he’s little more than a foot from Osamu. Suna’s eyes are wide and a light dusting of pink across his cheeks. 

Excellent. 

He smirks. “Tell me, Sunarin, do ya like what ya see?”

Suna grins and reaches for the hem of the skirt but Osamu swats his hands away. “I said, do ya like what ya see. I didn’t say ya could touch,” he pauses. “Yet.” 

Want flashes through Suna’s eyes and Osamu knows he has him exactly where he wants him. He reaches for the waistband of Suna’s track pants, reeling him in until they’re flush together. Osamu kisses him, fast and messy and without any decorum then just as quickly he pulls away and walks Suna backward toward their bed. Suna nearly falls back but Osamu pulls him up.

“Wait,” Osamu whispers into the curve of Suna’s neck. He kisses the sensitive skin there once, nips at his ear then drops gracelessly to his knees. 

The red silk pools around him, it’s soft sheen catching the dim light of their bedroom. Osamu thumbs dip below the waistband of Suna’s track pants and he tugs. 

“Won’t be needin’ these,” Osamu says. 

“Is that so?”

“Not where we’re goin’.”

Osamu stands, drags Suna in for another kiss, hot and demanding. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been together for seven years. It doesn’t matter that they kissed this morning. Every single kiss he shares with Suna is just as electrifying as the first. He pulls back, cups Suna’s cheek in one hand. Something soft and warm flutters in his stomach when Suna leans into the touch. His thumb brushes Suna’s cheek then he reels him back in, tugs off his jacket and tee-shirt, and nudges him until the backs of Suna’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and he goes tumbling down onto the bed. 

Osamu straddles Suna, his thighs spread apart by Suna’s muscle defined core. The skirt falls around Osamu’s hips, trailing down past his thighs, the excess pooling on either side of Suna’s torso. Osamu rises to his knees, the skirt sliding over Suna’s exposed core. He shivers and Osamu exhales as he sinks down on Suna’s dick. 

In moments like these Suna wonders what he did to deserve Osamu. Fuck. And Osamu in a skirt? Yeah, he definitely doesn’t deserve him. No one—past, present, or future—will ever be worthy of the sight before Suna. No one will be worthy of Osamu, panting, flushed, and _wearing a red, silk skirt._

And speaking of the skirt, the skirt has absolutely no right to be as hot as it is. A scrap of red fabric, no matter how light, smooth, or silky has no business being this. damn. hot. It’s intoxicating and Suna can’t tell what’s he’s drunker on—the flush of Osamu’s face or the damn skirt that flutters with every rise and fall of Osamu’s hips. 

Osamu’s fingers rake down Suna’s chest. The drag of his finger nails in contrast to the slide of the buttery silk skirt, it’s hem fluttering against his core, is driving him crazy. 

The silk and Osamu were made to go together. Silk—beautiful but durable and strong—and Osamu—ethereal but solid and fit—are similar in more ways than one. Suna loves it. Suna loves him. Suna loves him _in_ it. 

But, for all that the skirt is hot, it’s not really the skirt that is single handedly making this one of the best nights he's had, well, ever. It's what the Osamu _in the_ skirt becomes. There's an assuredness that couples the skirt. It's a side of Osamu he hasn't seen in a long time. Too long. There is no version of Osamu that Suna isn’t head over heels for. But this Osamu might just be one of his favorites, confident, assured, _and_ hot as fuck. 

Osamu moans, shifting his arms behind him and grabbing Suna's thighs. He throws his head back, revealing the expanse of his neck. Suna surges forward—drags his mouth over the curve where Osamu's neck and shoulder meet, over his jaw. He bites at the edge of his ear then ducks down to suck a bruise above Osamu's heart. 

Osamu whines when Suna flips them so it's Osamu on the bed with Suna hovering over him. He fucks into Osamu slowly but steadily, relishing in the subtle shift in Osamu’s expression as he falls apart until Suna. 

The Osamu underneath him now is confident—strong, sexy, and beautiful. Fuck. He loves him so much. Something squeezes in his chest that Suna knows has nothing to do with the skirt and everything to do with Osamu. 

Suna palms Osamu through the skirt, grinning when Osamu’s eyes blow wide. He fucks into him faster, leans over until his lips are next to Osamu’s ear. 

“Osamu—Samu.”

Osamu groans.

“Baby, look at me.” 

Osamu’s neck snaps, eyes seeking out Suna. “Hhhhnggg.”

Suna smirks. “That’s good. You’re doing great, baby. Amazing.” Suna punctuates the sentence with a particularly rough slam of his hips. Osamu moans. “Samu, I know I don’t say it enough, but believe me, you’re beautiful.” Suna trips on the last word, shuddering. “Fuck, in a skirt or not, you’re fucking stunning. Seriously, what the fuck did I do to deserve you?

“But, fuck, babe—” Suna lifts the hem of the skirt, lets the smooth dance across his finger tips. “Fuck, the skirt—you’re—” The rest of his sentence is cut off when Osamu wraps a hand around his neck and yanks him into a kiss. That’s all it takes to set Suna over the edge before he’s coming, Osamu only moments behind him.

"So," Osamu says later, his head tucked against Suna's shoulder and arms encircling his waist. Their legs are tangled together in a gangly knot and he only sound that fills the dark room is the gentle rise and fall of their chests. 

"So?" Suna mumbles already half asleep. 

"Did ya like the skirt?" 

Suna cracks open an eye. "What kind of stupid question is that?" 

Osamu grins and something flutters in his stomach. Fuck, he loves this man.

"I hoped you would like it. Would have been a shame if I had to get of it. It's silk, ya know? Wouldn't want all those silk worms hard work to be for nothin'." 

Suna turns to him. "Let's get one thing straight, doesn't matter what you're wearing, if you're the one in it, then I'm going to love it. Second, you will get rid of that skirt when hell freezes over and not a day before then." 

Osamu smirks and pulls him in a for a kiss. "Whatever ya say, Sunarin." 


End file.
